


Choked by Thorns

by sleeperbyday



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sort of? - Freeform, Spoilers for white clouds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28669557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeperbyday/pseuds/sleeperbyday
Summary: Claude’s never really liked the colour red. It reminds him of battles and bloodshed. It reminds him of the petals he can't stop coughing up and his rapidly dwindling lifespan.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester & Claude von Riegan, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 117





	Choked by Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my friends Congercine and Olympeline for reading early drafts, letting me toss ideas around and yelling about claurenz with me 💜 💛

It’s a deceptively normal day in the middle of the Wyvern Moon and the Battle of the Eagle and Lion is fast approaching, much to Claude’s excitement.

He’s seated in the Golden Deer classroom with his housemates and professor, revising their strategy in the late afternoon before dismissal. A hastily-drawn map covers the blackboard next to Byleth’s desk, lines weaving across it to represent the enemy’s predicted patterns. A printed copy of that same map rests on Claude’s own desk and he traces a finger over the route he’ll be taking in a few weeks time.

It’s a familiar scene, right down to the way Lorenz is currently prattling on about his noble honour, as he so often is.

Claude tunes him out and busies himself with his map, running their plan through his head once more. The west bridge at Gronder will be the Golden Deer’s key to avoid engaging with the Blue Lions and Black Eagles at once. From there, if one of their archers can gain control of the ballista on the central hill, the battle will be as good as won.

It’s a work in progress and they still have backup routes and failsafes to plan but for now, they’ve made decent progress and the battle is still weeks away. Claude looks up, putting his strategising on hold for the time being, and waits for the word from Byleth that they’re free to go. It doesn’t come, however, because someone else is talking instead.

Or, more accurately, _still_ talking.

With a roll of his eyes, Claude looks over to Lorenz’s flapping lips and frowns. Not at Lorenz’s smug grin or the arrogance dripping from his voice or his dramatic gesturing, but at something else entirely.

An itch in his throat stops Claude short before he can say something. It’s uncomfortable and unlike any sensation he’s ever felt before, like he’s swallowed dirt, and his chest swells as he fights the urge to cough loudly. He settles for clearing his throat instead, dispelling the strange feeling and cutting Lorenz off at once.

“As much as we’d all love to hear more about you gallivanting across the battlefield and cutting down all our enemies…” he says to cover himself, “I’m pretty sure it won’t have to come to that. Just remember to stick to the plan and don’t run off on your own like last time.”

“Oh, please,” Lorenz sniffs, glancing disdainfully at Claude over his shoulder. “Acting on my own is hardly as reckless as the underhanded schemes conjured up by the likes of _you_ , Claude.”

Claude grins and leans back in his chair. He’s used to Lorenz’s hostility by now and has long since learned to humour his sharp glares and sharper words. Really, it’s not his fault that Lorenz is so easy to read and has all the subtlety of a Demonic Beast in a library. It had taken exactly three conversations before Claude read between the lines and saw that Lorenz’s dislike and distrust of him belies his deep devotion for the Alliance and the intense pressure placed on him to lead it.

The prickling feeling in Claude’s throat returns in full force before he can reply and his smile wavers the barest amount. It’s worse than last time; tiny pinpricks of pain blossom beneath his chest and he really, _really_ wants to cough but he holds off until he can leave. Briefly, he wonders if he’s falling ill or if he just ate something that disagreed with him, but lets his quick wit work its magic before he can jump to conclusions.

“Hey, my schemes may be underhanded but they get the job done, don’t they? And just to be clear, Teach, that sleeping potion _is_ still on the table, right?”

From their desk at the front of the room, Byleth merely sighs and sweeps their hand towards the door with the exasperation of someone babysitting a bunch of misbehaving children. Claude stands quickly and waves off his housemates, whistling a tune to feign nonchalance as he leaves but the song dies when he reaches the second floor of the dorms.

At this time of day, most of the students are away catching up with friends or doing their group tasks but the peace and quiet is short-lived when a coughing fit wracks Claude’s frame as soon as he shuts the door to his room. The pain starts small, skating across his chest, but rapidly intensifies and he keels over, hacking and choking until his throat is raw and stinging.

It’s far worse than any illness he’s ever experienced and dread pools in his heart. Poison, he’s been poisoned somehow, or maybe cursed by some sort of dark magic. The theories leave his head as quickly as they entered when his chest constricts and squeezes the air from his lungs. It burns, like his insides have turned to fire, and he falls to his knees, gasping coughs near deafening in the otherwise-quiet building. 

His eyes water, cold sweat covering his brow and the back of his neck, when he feels it. Something deep in his throat is blocking his airway and he gags, saliva leaking uninhibited from his mouth. Whatever it is starts to climb up, higher and higher, until its in his mouth and he’s spitting it out into his waiting palms. He crawls beside his bed, eyes sliding shut and head lolling back against the mattress.

The area falls quiet again as if nothing had happened and Claude eagerly drags ragged gulps of air into his screaming lungs. His entire upper body aches like he’s spent the entire day at the training grounds, but the relief is undeniable. He lifts a hand to wipe at his forehead and cracks his eyes open to inspect his other.

It’s heavy with exhaustion and coated with saliva but disgust is the furthest thing from Claude’s mind when he finally lays eyes on the thing that almost choked him to death. He blinks, all thoughts running out of his head.

In his palm lays three red petals.

* * *

Claude visits the library immediately after a much smaller dinner than usual.

He grasps the petals—if that’s what they really are, how would _real flower petals_ end up in his throat of all places— as he makes his way up to the second floor, only pulling them out from his pocket when he gathers a sizeable stack of books and sits down at a desk. He inspects them closely, holding them up to the light of his candle. They definitely look and feel like flower petals, but that hardly answers any of his many questions.

He opens the first book, a guide on magic for beginners. Claude’s never been skilled with magic and isn’t interested in learning, but his best bet for an explanation seems to be a botched spell or a cruel practical joke cast on him. He skims through the pages, eyes darting between diagrams and scripts about summoning fire and ice, wind and thunder, but there’s nothing about nature, much less flowers.

In that case, it’s probably a more advanced spell. He shoves the book aside and grabs the next, a similar guide for intermediates, and another for experts. Again, he finds nothing about plants or flowers. The encyclopaedia on dark magic doesn’t help either, nor does the one on white magic he picked up just in case.

So, the cause doesn’t seem to be magic. That’s fine, he still has plenty of other books in front of him.

He starts on the second pile. This one contains volumes about different types of illnesses in Fódlan, in case he’s coming down with something after all. He doesn’t have high hopes, and would normally be more inclined to believe in magic over something as mundane and implausible as regular, everyday sickness, but a picture of delicate, pink flower petals catches his eye before he can finish the thought. He halts mid-page-turn.

_Hanahaki Disease, discovered and named in Dagda. Flowers grow in the lungs of those suffering from unrequited love and make their way up the trachea where they are then coughed up, often painfully._

Claude barks a laugh to himself. His first thought is that ‘painfully’ is a serious understatement.

His second is that the description is completely absurd in every conceivable way.

His third is to keep reading.

_The variety of flower varies in case to case but often holds some sort of significance to the victim or their loved one. Initially, the victim merely coughs up petals but as the illness progresses, these petals become whole flowers. When the disease reaches its final stages, the flowers become bloodied and released with great pain and the victim succumbs. There is no natural cure for Hanahaki Disease; the flowers and their roots must be surgically removed from the victim’s lungs. However, doing so erases all feelings the victim holds for their loved one, both romantic and not. In severe cases, the victim may lose their ability to love altogether._

Claude sputters and rereads the passage. It’s still the same the second time and he buries his face in his hands.

It has to be a joke, that’s the only explanation. A fake book planted here by someone for a laugh and accidentally skipped over the last time Seteth did his monthly sweep. Claude has to hand it to the culprit though; it’s pretty elaborate for a joke and he probably would never have thought of something as farfetched as one-sided love causing one to cough up flowers until they die. And that part about never loving again is so dramatic he’d almost believe it’s from an opera.

With a sigh, he slaps the book shut and pushes it aside, followed by the other three tomes on health and sickness he picked up. Only one book remains now: a vast guide to all domestic and wild flowers grown in Fódlan. He had wanted to narrow down the specific variety of the petals sitting on the table and doubts that knowledge would be of any use now, but he opens it anyway.

He doesn’t have much to go on; all he can tell is that the petals are a deep red, soft and delicate to the touch, short and round and slightly curly. Claude is no botanist but finding a picture or description to match his own should be easy, and he’s proven right when he comes across a passage on roses.

_Red roses are an extremely popular variety of roses and are commonly given as gifts. They represent beauty, passion, desire, and romantic love._

Claude rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need a book to tell him that; the flower seen next to the passage perfectly matches the one pinned to a certain someone’s uniform everyday. It also perfectly matches the trio of petals on the desk and his brows furrow as the itch in his throat returns once more.

He shoots up from the chair, taking a hasty gulp of water from the canteen he brought along, and returns the books to their shelves before making a beeline for the door. He doesn’t get far before a series of coughs burst free from his chest and he stops, bracing a hand on the nearest shelf as his limbs quiver and his throat tightens.

It’s over quicker than last time and he’s left to catch his breath with three new petals sitting slick with saliva in his palm. The library is one of the worst, if not _the_ worst, places this could have happened but it looks like the few students already here when he arrived seem to have left in the meantime. But Claude’s hardly one to take chances, so he makes his exit before it can happen again, all of his questions going unanswered.

* * *

Claude is lethargic at breakfast the next morning.

He’d paid a visit to Manuela before returning to his room last night. She hadn’t been happy about the late hour but Claude was thankful that she didn’t look at him like he had two heads when he showed her the petals and proceeded to give him an accurate assessment. But, on the other hand, she also broke the news to him that, yes, Hanahaki Disease _is_ real, and, yes, he _is_ ill with it.

Everything he read in the book turned out to be true. He holds feelings for someone who does not reciprocate. The disease will progressively get worse and worse until the pain almost becomes unbearable. Until he’s coughing up whole roses no different to the ones grown in the greenhouse.

Until it kills him.

That is, unless he undergoes surgery and has that part of him removed. But something made him swallow and refuse the invitation, and it wasn’t the alarming amount of bottles he heard Manuela hide before letting him in.

Claude hadn’t been entirely sure how to react. In the end, he settled on thanking her and bidding her goodnight, then going back to his room and spending the whole night tossing and turning. He isn’t going to deny facts that are staring him in the face, nor is he going to kid himself. Only one person comes to mind when he thinks of the red roses growing inside him and who else would it be but Lorenz in all his glory?

The one who’s pompous and pretentious and flat-out irritating but also dedicated and loyal and earnest. Who lives and breathes nobility but will someday be a brilliant leader for his people. Who’s diligent in the classroom and skilled on the battlefield, lance in hand and horse galloping.

The one who’s currently leering at him from across the dining table.

“What’s the matter with you? You’re far too quiet today.”

Claude lifts his head from where it rests in one palm and smiles lazily. “How kind of you to notice. Miss hearing my beautiful voice that badly, do you?”

Lorenz makes what he would probably consider an inelegant sound and averts his eyes, annoyance obvious on his face. “Certainly not. It simply leads me to believe that you are up to something.”

Since they met, teasing Lorenz has always been a fun hobby but Claude thinks he may have to dial it down. He’s going to miss Lorenz’s reactions—the way he huffs and glares, or stammers and flushes if he’s _really_ flustered—but he suspects they’ll only make everything worse for him.

“Or I’m tired from a crummy night’s sleep,” he mutters, somewhat bitterly. He tries to not notice the way Lorenz’s eyes narrow and lips purse, fails, and is forced to down the rest of his tea.

“Well, see to it that you don’t disrespect the Professor by falling asleep in the middle of their lecture.”

Claude doesn’t need to look back up to know that Lorenz is frowning like a parent scolding their child and leaves to wash his dirty dishes by way of reply. He’s the first in their classroom for once, which grants him a precious few minutes to sputter into his palm as discreetly as he can manage and hide the evidence in his desk. He’s winded after, and the feeling that his insides have been rubbed with gravel is much worse than the jolt of pain as he collapses into his chair and lets his forehead hit the desk, wondering how he got himself into this mess. How he could have fallen for someone who despises him.

“Honestly, Claude, what did I _just_ say?” A voice sounds from behind, as familiar as it is impatient. “The lesson has not even begun and already you cannot keep your head up?”

Light blinds him when he swings his head up from the desk, the motion so quick it leaves him dizzy and in his disorientation, he almost misses Lorenz looming over him, hands on hips and looking supremely unimpressed.

“How long have you been there?” Claude asks through a thin veil of panic.

“A few moments,” Lorenz sits primly at his own desk and begins to sort through his neatly-organised stack of notes. “Do not think yourself so interesting that I followed you straight here after you left the dining hall.”

Byleth chooses that moment to enter and silently looks between the two of them before settling in front of the blackboard. Behind him, Claude hears chatter as the other Deer file into the room.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you insisted on following me around,” he bites back before he can stop himself. Not even ten minutes have passed and he’s already gone back on his no-teasing policy.

Lorenz nearly drops his papers. On any other day it would have been funny.

“ _Monitor_ , Claude, not _follow_ , and I have my reasons to—“

“Shh,” Claude interrupts. Despite himself, despite everything, he can’t help but smile. “Don’t be disrespectful to Teach; class is starting soon.”

* * *

Weeks later, he orders their troops forward with a grin.

It’s not the first time he’s been in combat since contracting this disease, but it’s the first time it’s not a skirmish with bandits that hardly know how to fight properly. Luring Ferdinand from his post in front of the central hill is easy enough for the main army and the Golden Deer quickly gain their in to join the fray. Claude ignores the opening and heads right instead; he and Marianne have been assigned to cover Leonie as she forges ahead to cross the west bridge.

His battalion is weakened in the process but between the three of them, the few Imperial troops there are defeated with relative ease and Claude smiles as he spots an easy path to the ballista. It’s no wonder the central hill is crucial for gaining the advantage; Gronder Field is vast, and this hill and the ballista mounted on it provide a critical vantage point.

Leonie gallops off to rejoin the main army and Marianne follows to patch up anyone in need of healing, leaving Claude alone. He doesn’t mind though, he’s more than capable of holding his own in a one-on-one and it gives him the time to survey the east field and figure out how the other factions are faring so far. The Blue Lions are separated, half of their remaining troops clashing with the mostly-intact Black Eagles and half being pressured by the wall of might that is Byleth, Raphael, and Hilda.

Claude still isn’t sure why Teach is participating when the other two professors aren’t but he isn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth, especially when they knock out Dimitri and remove the Blue Lions from the battle. It won’t be a perfect win - some of the Alliance troops got too cocky or were simply outmatched, but with the Golden Deer still standing strong, Claude doubts it will be difficult to secure the win regardless.

He smiles again, uses the ballista to dispatch Dorothea as she begins to aim a spell at Ignatz. Everything’s going according to plan.

Until he hears hooves rapidly approaching from behind, followed by a clang, a grunt, and a thud.

The ballista, while incredibly useful for sniping at long distances, is more than a little inconvenient in close quarters, so he lets go and readies his bow instead.

Lorenz blinks, and even his horse manages to look affronted as they both stare at him.

“What are you doing here?” Claude lowers his bow, not even bothering to hide his surprise. “We already cleared out all the enemies on this side of the field.”

“Do try to pay attention to your surroundings, won’t you? Your back was wide open, making you an easy target for that brigand,” Lorenz sounds exasperated but his brow is pinched in intense focus and he readjusts his hold on his lance. “You would have been bested easily if I was not close by.”

“Huh. Well, thanks for covering me.”

His thanks probably means nothing to Lorenz, so he returns to the ballista before any more words can be exchanged, trying not to linger on why Lorenz wasn’t on the frontlines in the first place or why he’s not returning there now. Up ahead, Caspar charges at Lysithea, his axe at the ready, but an arrow to the flank takes care of him before he can reach her.

“Good shot,” Lorenz says quietly, almost begrudgingly, and then the sound of retreating hooves that Claude was waiting for rings out above the distant sounds of battle.

A familiar feeling turns his blood to ice and he scowls. Lorenz compliments him _once_ , in a way that he likely didn’t even intend as a compliment but rather a simple acknowledgement of skill, and within seconds he’s fighting to keep himself from doubling over and bringing up the petals suddenly buried in his throat?

This can’t be happening. Not now, he’s in the middle of a battle, and an important one at that. The Deer haven’t won yet and he’s commanding a tool that could turn the tides if taken from him and he can’t let that happen, so he grits his teeth and stops breathing, gripping the handles hard enough to leave marks across his palms. Somehow this hurts worse than simply giving in, as if there’s a pressure building up, and his eyes water and his head swims as his lungs fight to forcibly release that pressure themselves. Through the haze, he blinks rapidly to clear his vision and tries to aim the ballista, but his arms shake and his throat burns and his shot misses.

A ways away, Hubert glances in his direction and fires a blast of dark magic that Claude dives to narrowly avoid. The wheeze of pain as he fumbles the landing and his stomach and chin hit the ground escapes him before he can try to swallow it down. He gasps, his heart pounding and eyes flying wide open, but it’s too late. The breath he just took in leaves him in a ragged heave and he writhes on the ground, kicking up dust and knocking away his bow and quiver.

As if things weren’t already bad enough, in his distracted state, he fails to notice the small figure crouched behind the shrubbery nearby until he barely registers the sounds of rustling leaves as they’re darting out to strike.

“Admit your defeat,” Petra proclaims with steely determination. “This hill is now belonging to the Black Eagles!”

The tip of her blade grazes the back of his neck but Claude hardly notices, nor when it withdraws the barest amount. His tear-streaked cheeks rub into the grass and his only answer is a strained whimper.

“What are you doing?” Her voice is equal parts concerned and cautious. “Is this your strategy?”

The petals come up quicker and with less resistance, but there’s more of them and he retches as they drag along the walls of his throat. He doesn’t bother catching them this time, just spits them into the grass with one more choked sound that has chills running down his spine despite the sweat covering his brow. He hangs his head in exhaustion, peering down as he puffs and pants for breath. There’s almost a dozen of them; damaged or frayed by the edges, as if they’re in as much pain as Claude is.

He frowns. That’s new.

“Claude?” Petra prompts, and he starts. She’s stepped away, clearly caught off guard by what she just witnessed, and stares questioningly at him.

“Don’t mind me,” he uses his foot to discreetly slide his bow back to him and stands, nocking an arrow and aiming in one quick movement. “Now, what was that about my defeat?”

* * *

Petra transfers to the Golden Deer house before the next month’s end and Claude’s first act of welcome is to take tea with her. He and his classmates may have won the battle in the end, but he lost the war when one of his many secrets got out much, _much_ sooner than he would have liked.

“Hana-haki,” Petra sounds out the word like she’s never heard it before.

“Don’t have that one in Brigid? I certainly don’t back home,” Claude smiles bitterly, staring down at the basket of snacks he prepared to avoid meeting her eyes. He grabs a cookie and takes a bite, figuring he’ll need something tasty to munch on if they’re going to be having this conversation.

“The coughing of the flowers is a disease I have heard in stories, but I was not knowing its Fódlan name,” she informs him. “If the stories are correct, your love is bringing you great pain because you are not loved in return.”

He laughs aloud, nearly spraying crumbs everywhere. “Not one to mince words, are you? I can tell you’ll fit right in with the Golden Deer. But sadly, you’re correct, even though calling it ‘love’ is a bit much…” a hand rubs at the back of his neck and he flushes. It can’t be love. Not yet.

“Who are you feeling for?” Her tone is bright and inquisitive as if she’s asking a simple question in class.

Claude eyes her. She’s waiting patiently, her expression neutral as she breaks eye contact to take a sip of tea before smiling appreciatively at the taste. She’s only been a Golden Deer for a short time, but Claude knows that he likes Petra, and feels a sense of connection with her as a fellow outsider. He almost hesitates in answering, almost speaks his heart instead of his mind.

Almost.

“It’s not important. They don’t need to know, and neither does anyone else for that matter. Catch my drift? If it were up to me, no one would find out, but life doesn’t always go as planned.”

“You are telling no one?” She stares, brows pinched in a mix of annoyance and confusion. “But the illness is a danger and coughing strikes are frequent. What if you are needing help?”

It’s a good point and they both know it. In the end, the Battle of the Eagle and Lion was just a high-stakes mock battle but the same can’t be said for any of the other battles he’ll be fighting in the future. Bandits and Death Knights and Flame Emperor soldiers won’t be held back by things like pity or honour if they stumble upon the incapacitated heir of House Riegan on the ground.

His face turns grim as he nods. “Yeah… I know. And I know that the chances of finding myself in danger will go up as the disease progresses.”

“So why?” She shakes her head, her braid swinging with the motion, and opens and closes her mouth like she wants to protest but isn’t sure how. Eventually, her eyes slide down to the table between them as she seems to realise that she won’t be getting an answer. “If you are not telling anyone, why do you not get the cure?”

Claude sighs. In the month that followed his diagnosis, he often asked himself the same thing.

And then he would watch Lorenz demonstrate his passion for the Alliance in yet another debate about politics, or perfectly answer one of Teach’s questions and preen at the praise that followed, or singlehandedly defeat an enemy that crossed him with little more than a few flourishes of his lance and the suggestion was always forgotten.

It takes him a while to find the right words. “When you fall in love with someone, it happens for a reason. Having something like that just… removed from you isn’t natural, no matter how appealing it might be compared to the alternative.”

He leaves out that many sleepless nights have brought him to this conclusion. That coughing up those rose petals hurts more every time and he thinks he’s dying every time, until the day comes where it will actually happen. That Lorenz is a far better man than he initially gave him credit for, and finds a new way to prove that to him every time they talk, and Claude never wants to let himself forget that.

That his plans for the Alliance, for Fódlan, for Almyra, for _everywhere_ , are far too important to go to waste for someone who’s too stubborn to change their mind about him, but he has no other option.

“I have understanding,” Petra nods, looking as solemn as she sounds. “And I have understanding of your wishes. I will not be telling anyone of your illness as long as you are going to be treating yourself with care.”

Claude flashes her a grin, finishes the rest of his cookie and folds his arms behind his head.

“We should finish our tea before it gets cold. Don’t want the other nobles to think we’re wasting perfectly good leaves, right?”

* * *

Little by little, everything gets worse.

More and more coughing fits assault him every day with more and more petals coming up every time, like there’s an infinite supply of them. It’s about as routine now as eating breakfast in the morning but Claude never gets used to the pain. One morning, it pulls him from a nice dream about soaring the skies on his wyvern and he’s forced to bolt outside before he can wake up the entire building. The fishing pond becomes his refuge every day after that; it’s just far enough from the dorms that he can make it out there before the flowers can explode from his chest, its close proximity to the greenhouse means he can easily get rid of them without arousing suspicion, and it’s quiet and relaxing, perfect for catching his breath and getting his bearings back.

Byleth doesn’t bat an eye when Claude begins regularly entering class last and leaving first, and if any of the Golden Deer, save Petra, catch on, they don’t say anything either. It’s hard to discreetly cough up a bouquet’s worth of rose petals day after day, and he almost thinks he’s failed when the _one_ person he doesn’t want to find out chases him down in the courtyard one day.

“Claude,” Lorenz sneers down at him, hands planted firmly on his hips. “Why have you been neglecting your studies lately?”

“What are you talking about?” Claude squints. For once, he’s not making fun and purposely trying to get under Lorenz’s skin.

Lorenz huffs and rolls his eyes like he’s already fed up that Claude can’t answer such a simple question. “I am talking about how you have been late to class _every_ _day_ this month. And, if that wasn’t enough, you also seem to be dismissing yourself five minutes early each afternoon.”

“Oh, that. I wouldn’t really call it ‘neglecting my studies’ when I’m hardly gone long enough to miss anything.” Something occurs to Claude then and he has to fight to keep a smirk off his face. “You know, five minutes in the morning and five minutes in the afternoon isn’t a lot. Honestly, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“It was nothing. The classroom is so quiet and sensible without you that it is almost unrecognisable,” Lorenz tosses his bangs, practically radiating smugness, and keeping that grin at bay is suddenly ten times harder.

“I don’t think that’s the insult you think it is.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Well, if you must know…” Claude shrugs, pretends that Lorenz is dragging some deep secret out of him, “I’ve been spending more time training each day.”

“You? Training?” Lorenz gapes, eyes wide.

Claude’s mouth goes dry as he realises that he’s dug himself into a hole. There’s very little in the world that he wants to do less than say the words on the tip of his tongue, but what choice does he have if he wants his lie to hold up?

“What, don’t believe me? Then why don’t you come with me? We’ve got that mission in Remire Village next week and you can never get too much practice in.”

The seconds drag on as Lorenz considers. Claude’s heart hammers in his chest as he tries to telepathically implore him to decline, and it seems to work when Lorenz finally shakes his head.

“I’m afraid today I cannot. You will have to ask me some other time, as I would very much like to see whether or not you have been paying attention in class.”

He gives a curt nod, then turns to leave and the courtyard falls quiet as the sounds of gasping coughs follow Claude in the opposite direction. Three days later, long after Claude pushed the incident to the back of his mind and hoped for Lorenz to do the same, the invitation is offered unexpectedly and Claude accepts for the sake of getting it over and done with.

He regrets it almost instantly when they arrive at the training grounds and Lorenz removes his uniform jacket to reveal his neatly buttoned and tucked white undershirt. The sight _really_ shouldn’t make the faintest of flushes rise on Claude’s cheeks, not when Lorenz is all lanky limbs and no bulk, but it does anyway and he swallows.

“What are you doing?”

“Were you under the impression that I was going to simply stand by and watch you shoot at stationary targets?” Lorenz looks up from where he’s setting his jacket and rose down on a nearby bench, a brow raised in suspicion. “No, that is child’s play and no way for me to accurately assess your skills. We are going to spar, of course.”

 _Great_.

Claude fights the urge to groan loudly and run a hand down his face in frustration. If he doesn’t leave _right now_ , he may as well blurt out “hey, Lorenz, I have unrequited feelings for you and the rose petals that I’m going to be throwing up _very_ soon prove it”. But, giving up without a fight will only convince Lorenz that his theories about Claude’s work ethic are true and cause him to become even more cocky and overbearing. Claude isn’t sure which is worse.

“Bows and lances have wildly different combat styles and would result in us being unevenly matched,” Lorenz announces, now beginning to stretch his arms. “Thus, for the sake of a fair fight, I will demonstrate my magical prowess instead.”

“No kidding,” is all Claude says, his tone flat as he busies himself with examining and selecting a training bow. He turns around, takes a deep breath, buries his rising apprehension and dread with the familiar motion of nocking an arrow.

“Are you ready?”

“Certainly. I expect nothing but your best.”

Try as Claude might, but he knows that just isn’t possible in these conditions.

With a sigh, he throws caution to the wind, draws the bowstring back and fires. Lorenz may be tall, but he isn’t the biggest of targets thanks to also being slender and nimble, allowing him to dodge with ease and retaliate. The air around him seems to crackle with energy as his fingertips light up with the glow of a Fire spell and Claude ducks beneath it, aiming horizontally to attack Lorenz’s legs and throw off his balance. It doesn’t work; Claude is sure it’s been some time since Lorenz has fought on foot instead of horseback but he’s as sure-footed and confident in his motions as ever, just as proficient with reason as he is with a lance. He puts up a good fight, never quite staying in the same spot and quickly recovering whenever Claude manages to hit him, dancing his dance like the training ground is just another one of the many ballrooms he’s spun and twirled his way through.

He’s long since known that for all his bravado, Lorenz most _definitely_ has the abilities to back it up, but seeing those abilities up close and focused on him and _only_ him hits Claude like a Sagittae to the stomach. He trips on his own feet, lands flat on his back and suddenly feels more out of breath than he should given the ridiculously short amount of time it took for him to go down. There’s an opening there, the excuse he needs, and he’s not happy to let Lorenz have the win, but that doesn’t matter now. He needs to get out, _quickly_.

“Not bad, Lorenz. Let’s do this again sometime,” he smiles, making a show of picking himself up and dusting himself off. He takes the time to properly set his bow back on the weapons rack, then tears off towards the doors as quickly as he can manage. “See you in class tomorrow!”

“Hold on a moment, Claude, you cannot be serious. That is all?”

Lorenz’s voice rings through the air, in Claude’s ears, but the doors don’t open a second time. The sky is still blue and the sun’s not even close to setting, but Claude is all too happy to spend the rest of the day locked in his room, choking on petal after petal until he feels hollow inside and he has nothing left to give.

* * *

As it turns out, even if Claude really had been spending all his time training, it would never have been enough to prepare for the Remire Village catastrophe.

After watching buildings burn down, fending off addled villagers attacking everything in sight, and realising that one of their own—or someone they had _thought_ was one of their own—was behind it all, it almost feels wrong to forget about it so quickly and turn his eyes towards the ball instead.

But, as he soon discovers when he makes himself scarce the day before, there’s not much else he can do but try to take it easy, at least for the time being.

It’s immediately apparent that something’s wrong when the petals feel slimier than usual. The copious amounts of saliva that come with each coughing fit are always disgusting but this feeling is something else entirely. Claude gags at the unpleasant drag up his throat, feels a chill race down his back. The pain is excruciating, like his lungs have been punctured by a dozen arrows, and his shallow gasps grow more erratic as his airflow is cut off. Dark spots fill his vision by the time it’s over and he slides down the nearest wall, letting the cool air of the cathedral balcony soothe him before he looks down at his hands.

The dark spots mottling the petals catch him off guard and his eyes widen as he inspects them closer. He wants to write them off as a marking of some sort, but he notices those same spots spattered across his palms and discards the thought before it can finish forming. Against the petals, they almost look black, like ink is seeping through them, but against his hands, they’re unmistakably red.

Panic grips him and he pulls himself up to the balcony’s railing. The petals fall to the trees below, but blood still runs down his hands in trails.

It’s getting worse. His clock is ticking.

That night, Claude hardly sleeps and wakes up the next morning feeling sluggish and like he can’t drag enough air in. He almost doesn’t make it out of the dining hall in time before he’s painting his hands red and Petra follows him outside to check on him. He’s more receptive to her attempts to talk some sense into him the second time around, even if he still waves off her pleas to talk to Manuela before stuffing the petals in the nearest hedge and making his exit.

After his day started as awfully as the last one ended, suffice it to say that Claude isn’t particularly excited for the ball that evening. Fancy ballrooms filled with dancing nobles have never been his favourite type of environment, a fact that becomes more apparent when he chooses to linger by the refreshments table. No petals are threatening to come up yet, but his breathing hasn’t slowed down and his body is aching far too much for someone who’s barely even grazed the dance floor.

He’s not looking for anyone in particular when his eyes scan over the crowd, but the single worst person to see appears anyway. Lorenz is alone, which seems strange after how much he bragged about the extensive list of women chomping at the bit to dance with him. Claude wants to smirk and then run away but he’s too slow; they lock eyes and suddenly, Lorenz is walking towards him.

“Hm, one dance with the Professor and you’re already winded. I see your stamina is still lacking after that pitiful excuse of a sparring match not long ago,” he eyes Claude through his bangs and picks a glass of champagne from the table. Somehow, his smile seems less malicious, though still undeniably smug, and Claude wonders if it’s because he’s in his element or if it’s something else.

“Good evening to you too, Lorenz,” he answers without looking back up, his tone only a bit more clipped than he intends. “One dance is all it takes sometimes. Can you really blame me for getting a little worked up on such a big night?"

“Yes. It is a noble’s duty to deftly wield a tolerance for such arduousness. You could stand to learn a thing or two from me,” the words come without a moment’s hesitation and Claude rolls his eyes.

“Is that an offer?”

“Don’t be crass.”

“That’s not a no.”

“On the contrary, it is the most emphatic no I could possibly give,” how Lorenz manages to say that so seriously, Claude doesn’t know, though he supposes he’s always been skilled in the art of saying the silliest things with a straight face. “I highly doubt you would be able to keep up with me. Besides, even if I was feeling generous, I would never find the time between all the noblewomen ahead of you.”

“Really? Because you look very un-partnered right now,” a smile manages to break free then, even if it’s wry and hidden behind Claude’s glass as he takes a drink.

“I am allowed to take a short break, just as you are.”

“Oh, sure. And _I’m_ the one with the bad stamina.”

If there’s one thing Claude doesn’t expect Lorenz to do next, it’s chuckle. The sound, while short, is sweet, melodic and pulls Claude’s eyes up before he can help it. His hunch was right; Lorenz’s usual haughty superiority is nowhere to be seen and the smile replacing it is light, relaxed and unlike any smile he’s seen on Lorenz before.

That thought is a leap too far in the wrong direction.

Claude’s shoulders start to shake as he struggles to hold his breath and out of the corner of his eye, he barely spots Lorenz glancing down at him. The smile drops from his face and Claude’s first thought, bizarrely, is that it’s his fault it’s gone.

“Claude? Are you quite alright?”

“I’m fine.”

It takes all his willpower to force the reply out, but he doesn’t even sound remotely convincing. He drops his glass on the table, hardly caring when it tips and spills over the cloth, and takes off for the double doors at the head of the room. The exertion is almost too much; his lungs protest, his heart spasms, his throat clenches and what little air was left inside him evaporates.

The silence and stillness of the fishing pond is destroyed when Claude retches and heaves, dragging himself out onto the dock and collapsing down. He can’t see through the darkness of night and with his eyes shut tight, but falling into the pond would be the least of his worries when each petal he spits up brings a fresh new wave of pain and a revolting, warm layer of stickiness in his throat.

The water is refreshingly cold when he sweeps his hands through the pond, a stark contrast to the sweat covering his face and the hot tears that never quite fell from his eyes. His limbs feel heavy and, before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, he lays down on the dock, telling himself it’s just for a short time before he goes back inside.

His eyes fall shut. Something warm runs down his chin and neck, either blood or saliva. Claude doesn’t know and doesn’t care to find out.

He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this. How long he can let the pain multiply, how long he can keep coughing up the sickening mix of roses and his own blood.

Is any this worth it? Is enduring this pain for Lorenz, someone who only sees him as an obstacle, even slightly worth it?

Can he really afford to go undergo surgery and allow any and all feelings he ever held for Lorenz to be erased until the only thing left is apathy? If not, can he really afford to let himself die and leave Fódlan and Almyra and the world at large in someone else’s hands?

His head throbs dully and banishes the train of thought before he can go any further, but he had no answer anyway.

His eyes crack open as his tears finally fall. His lips quirk into a small and sorry excuse of a smile.

Beneath the moonlight and stars upon stars, he can almost pretend to be at peace.

* * *

Between Jeralt’s passing, all of the knights leaving to search for the culprit, and… whatever happened in the Sealed Forest, Claude suspects their class will spend less time battling on days off from classes, but Teach seems to be throwing themselves, and the Golden Deer by extension, into more battles than ever before. Such is the life of a former mercenary, he supposes, especially one who’s grieving.

It works out well when Acheron’s kind enough to line his schedule up with theirs and they’re taking a trip to Gloucester territory to quiet him down. Claude flies ahead on his wyvern, higher and higher until his housemates below are nothing but specks and he’s free to breathe the fresh air in peace. It’s lucky that he passed the Wyvern Rider certification exam last week; greater mobility and utility on the battlefield aside, the skies are familiar and, in their own way, private.

So, when the first coughing fit comes along as he expects, he’s ready to let it pass with virtually no chance of being discovered.

Instead, with one hand covering his mouth and the other desperately trying and failing to keep a steady grip on the reins, his wyvern bucks and twists in a panic before disobeying its rider’s orders and giving up. Claude’s stomach jumps into his throat when they begin their descent and is almost coughed up before he even feels any petals when they land and the Golden Deer stare at him with varying levels of concern or confusion. His wyvern, the innocent, inexperienced creature, lets out a soft roar but Claude doesn’t have any time to reassure it before he’s dismounting and rushing to the nearby foliage. The petals still don’t come, but searing pain lances through him and he falls to his knees, shoulders hunching until he’s curled in on himself.

“What’s wrong?” He barely hears Raphael ask. “Did you swallow a bug up there or something?”

Claude can’t answer, he can’t possibly when, once again, something is very wrong. Lysithea answers for him, scolding him about being more careful, and a few other voices that he can’t make out pipe up before the sounds of marching resume.

One person lingers, going unnoticed until they slide off of their own mount and approach him.

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Lorenz comments, sounding vaguely disgusted. He receives no reply, so he continues. “Water may help. Do you have your canteen?”

“Empty,” Claude grits out before his throat squeezes the air out of him.

The sounds of Lorenz sighing and walking away are quiet and Claude almost misses them. He’d breathe a sigh of relief if he could, but something cold and metallic taps him on the shoulder before he can try.

“You must be more mindful with consumable supplies in the future. But, in the meantime, you’d best have this.”

A cough tapering off into a strained gasp is Claude’s only way of expressing his confusion at that moment. Eyes watering, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, knees digging into the ground, he’s certain he’s never looked more pitiful when he slowly looks up at Lorenz, his question right on the tip of his tongue but refusing to come out.

_You’re giving me yours?_

As if reading his mind, Lorenz averts his eyes and thrusts the canteen at him. “Yes, I know. But I can neither leave you in this state nor continue to listen to this, and I doubt it would cause you further harm.”

“If it’s coming from you,” Claude wants to say, “it very well could.”

He’s in a _very_ risky spot and needs Lorenz to go away immediately, but he doesn’t have the chance to refuse the offer before a violent gag assaults him. He lurches forward, his left hand shooting out to brace against the ground before he can collapse onto his stomach. His right, normally covering his mouth at times like this, flies down to claw at his throat when something deep inside takes shape and his gags turn to chokes. That something is far bigger and heavier than usual, like all of the petals have clustered together, and the slow rise is torturous, blocking his airway until he’s frantic and convulsing on the ground. The last of his air runs out and for a few horrifying moments that seem to drag on for all eternity, Claude cannot breathe. His thoughts cut out before he can wonder if he got too cocky, if he waited too long to think this through and now there’s nothing left to save him.

He had been adamant to not let this disease claim him without a fight, but the fight rapidly leaves him as his limbs grow heavier and darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. He’s afraid, he’s agonised, and worst of all, he’s so, _so_ tired, but if he closes his eyes they may never open again and he’ll be damned if he dies out here with so much left undone and when the petals are so close to freedom.

One last overpowering gag is all it takes before petals fill his palm and Claude slumps bonelessly on the grass. All of his energy has been stripped away and he couldn’t stand, let alone move at all, if he tried, never mind the battle he’s supposed to be fighting in mere hours.

He’s not sure how long it takes for his senses to return and the pain in his chest to subside, but the first thing he’s aware of, ahead of exhaustion or misery or bitterness, is the hand resting against his back.

He flinches away like it’s burned him and forces himself to sit up. First Petra and now Lorenz too? When the disease is at its worst and Claude’s at his most vulnerable, no less?

But, surprisingly, it’s Petra who stands looming over him, eyes wide and staring at something other than his face. He frowns, dread rearing its ugly head again, and follows her eyes to his right.

In his palm sits a whole rose.

Its petals are a bit misshapen and, as he looks closer, he can tell that he accidentally crushed it when he clenched his fist and keeled over, but it’s still a rose. One fully-formed rose, grown from his own lungs with his own love, stained with his own blood and heavy in his own hands. All of his earlier exhaustion vanishes without a trace as his throat dries and his mouth gapes. His mind draws a blank and the only thing he manages to say is, “This is bad, Petra.”

“Yes. Very,” her voice is clipped and only a bit more urgent than his as she sits beside him. “Have you had more thoughts about speaking with Professor Manuela?”

“Not… entirely.” It’s not a lie, but he doesn’t particularly care for anyone learning how he spent the night of the ball.

“I do not know what you are meaning but this is not a time for the jokes, Claude,” she’s looking at him fiercely when Claude tears his sight away from the rose, her eyes cold and her mouth set in a grim frown. “The Hanahaki is a danger when it has reached the end of its growth. You are knowing this and you have ignored it and now it is here.”

“Yes, I know. And believe me, I’ve been trying to weigh my options here and there, but…” he heaves a sigh, burying his face in the hand that isn’t attached still to the rose, “I can’t agree to that surgery, knowing what it’ll do to me.”

“But you will die,” she answers without hesitation. There’s no reason to hesitate when it’s a fact as clear as day.

“I know,” he repeats. The rose falls to the ground and he doesn’t bother to pick it back up. Something occurs to him as his eyes follow it, stark red against verdant grass, and he knows it probably isn’t important, but he opens his mouth anyway.

“Where did Lorenz go?”

“I distracted him with words that the Professor wished to be speaking with him.”

Her explanation is quick and nonplussed and Claude only nods, letting silence fall. He isn’t sure how he knows it without looking at her but he can tell Petra is thinking, turning words over in her mind, before…

“Is Lorenz your loved one?”

The long pause that ensues should tell her all she needs to know. But, she says nothing, and Claude doesn’t need to look up to know she’s waiting expectantly. Waiting to hear the answer from his own mouth, on his own terms.

He doesn’t need to think. It’s not news anymore, or something worth wasting effort trying to deny.

“Yes. He is.”

“Ah,” is all Petra murmurs before she stands up. She extends a hand and Claude takes it without protest; they’re long overdue to rejoin the group. “Please tell me that you will be speaking again with Professor Manuela soon.”

Another pause. For some reason, agreeing to this is worlds harder than telling her that he loves Lorenz. But, after the day he’s had, dawdling or hesitating is the last thing he can afford to do anymore. He sighs again, and when he opens his mouth, the words that come out are heavy with resignation.

“Okay. I will.”

Petra smiles, her mouth just barely pulling into what could be a smirk but Claude knows is genuine.

“Good.”

* * *

“Your prognosis isn’t good, Claude,” Manuela sighs, gazing sadly at the rose Claude laid on the table when he entered. “Once the petals turn to flowers, there isn’t much time left. I estimate about three more weeks until you become too weak to move on your own and eventually… well. I’m sure you know already.”

Claude does know already but hearing it from someone else steals the words from within his throat. He says nothing, keeping his gaze locked on the rose. For such an unassuming and pretty little thing, it sure has caused him a heap of trouble so far. He looks up to meet Manuela’s eyes and it takes a moment to remember how to speak.

“Is there anything you can do to help?”

“Well, as I mentioned before, I really must recommend the removal procedure. I know the cost is dire—many people see it as a last resort for a reason—but it’s a cure at the end of the day.”

“Anything else? Any medicine, or how about magic?”

Manuela only shakes her head, looking at him with pity in her eyes. The sight makes his heart sink like a rock to the bottom of the ocean.

“You cannot give up this easily, Claude. This is about life and death!” Petra glares at him from the next chair over, her hands balled into fists on its armrests.

Claude slouches in his own chair and rests his cheek in a palm. He knows, he wants to tell Petra that he _knows,_ but she’s just trying to help, and more importantly, she’s right. She’s right, it is a matter of life and death because he’s the one who came this far without doing something about it. Because somewhere along the way, it feels like Lorenz stopped hating him and started tolerating him. They aren’t friends, and Claude doubts they ever will be, let alone anything more, but their relationship has grown and Claude’s feelings have grown with them, and now he’s three weeks away from dying because of it.

Despite that, part of him still wants to refuse the surgery. Part of him doesn’t want to throw away their relationship and wants instead to walk out the door and let whatever happens happen, but a bigger part of him doesn’t want to throw away his life.

He can’t let himself die. Not now. Not yet.

He wants to tell Petra that he knows and he agrees, but the words don’t quite manifest.

“I need some time to think it over,” is what he eventually decides on.

“Have you not been listening? Time is running short and—“

“Three weeks,” he cuts Petra off, his tone only a bit more forceful than he intends. “I have at least three weeks. And we’re going with Teach next week for their ‘revelation’. Who knows, maybe I’ll have a revelation of my own there.”

“Claude,” Petra deadpans, staring at him like it’s the worst idea she’s ever heard. For all he knows, it probably is, but hope is hard to come by these days.

“I doubt you’re going to readily listen and take this to heart,” Manuela rolls her eyes, exasperation dripping from her voice, “but I would advise against any more battling or missions from now on.”

Claude’s eyes soften as he takes a breath. He had a feeling she’d say something like that, and for good reason. There’s a million ways this could go wrong, but he needs both her and Petra to know that he doesn’t intend on ignoring their advice for no good reason.

“With all due respect, Professor Manuela, I _have_ to be there next week. Rhea did say it’s just going to be a holy ceremony, but after the recent string of events, we can never be too careful. If they do end up going into battle with whatever or whoever is lurking out there and the house leader isn’t there to provide backup, there’s no telling what’ll happen,” he smiles, small and soft but as sincere as he can muster in that moment.

“I’ll be back after the ceremony with an answer. Deer’s honour.”

It’s a deadline he admittedly isn’t sure he can commit to, and his doubts come true when he wakes up on the final day of the Pegasus Moon with a sinking feeling in his chest that his lungs aren’t the cause of for once. Knowing that his only two options are memory loss or death is bleak, but so is the thought of a Fódlan forever shut away from the outside world. It’s an impossible choice when he’s going to lose either way and Claude doesn’t know if he regrets having a ceremony to attend before he can give Manuela the word.

Teach has to be persuaded to let him come along. They stare at him disapprovingly when he bustles up to the meeting place, bow in hand and wyvern saddled.

“Don’t worry about me, Teach, I just got a little airsick. ‘Don’t look down’ is the number one rule of flying for a reason, you know,” he tells them, smiling a smile that he hopes is convincing but he can’t be sure. “Anyway, it’s no biggie. Won’t happen again.”

They enter the temple and, in the beginning, everything seems to be going according to plan. Then the revelation fails, the Flame Emperor appears from seemingly nowhere along with three dozen soldiers, and everything changes.

Claude feels eyes on him as he climbs atop his wyvern and sets his quiver on his back. He looks up just before taking off and the Deer that aren’t currently readying their weapons stare back at him. Leonie looks conflicted, as if she can’t decide whether to be more concerned about his safety or the possibility of him dragging the rest of them down, Raphael gives a thumbs-up that Claude thinks is meant to be encouraging, and Petra is stationed further away but manages a quick glance over her shoulder at him.

Ahead of them, Lorenz is the one who speaks up, because Lorenz always speaks up.

“You’re not going to get yourself into trouble again, are you?”

His tone is wry but his face isn’t, and is Claude’s brain failing as well as his respiratory system or is Lorenz _worried about him?_

“Who, me? Never."

Claude bites out the quickest response possible and takes to the metaphorical skies. He doesn’t mean to hear the way Lorenz scoffs in amusement or see how he shakes his head in exasperation as he orders his horse back to their post. These are precisely the sort of things he can’t afford to focus on, or even notice, if he wants to remain alert or airborne, and he distracts himself by giving his arrow a new home in the nearest brigand’s chest. All things considered, he manages to fight surprisingly well, but protecting the Crest Stones and driving back the Imperial soldiers without any mishaps isn’t nearly as surprising as the Flame Emperor’s mask shattering to reveal none other than Edelgard beneath all that armour.

Claude could never have predicted this, and if the way the walk back up to the monastery is covered by a stunned silence is any indication, the rest of the Golden Deer surely hadn’t either. He hasn’t spoken to Edelgard much over the past year but nothing had indicated that she was capable of something like this. Worse, he has no idea what else she’s capable of, or what she’s going to do next.

His mind races, running through all of his past conversations with her, until his heart starts to race too. The ever-present pain in his chest flares up again until it sears him from the inside and turns all of his air to ash. He gasps, reaching up to clasp his throat, and wobbles as a wave of dizziness rolls through him. Petra’s at his side in an instant, but her words fall on deaf ears as his wheezing turns to choking and he falls to his knees.

The first cough feels more like a stab wound, and pulls him forward as one hand plants itself on the ground. Deep in his throat, he feels the rose begin its drag and his eyes water and legs thrash as thorns dig into his lungs. He tastes blood, _feels_ blood, and gags when his air cuts off and his vision swims, the cries of panic around him fading into oblivion.

The pain is relentless, but the rose’s climb seems easier or more compliant, like his body’s giving up. Fear cuts through him like a sword as somebody rests a hand on his shoulder and he retches into his palm with a pitchy gasp. The rose is pristine, even as weighed down by blood and saliva as it is, but far too heavy for Claude’s tired limbs to support. The last thing he sees before his eyes slide shut is the way it floats down to the ground like an imitation of the delicate and beautiful thing it’s meant to be.

Then, his body gives out and he collapses.

* * *

Waking up in the infirmary is a shock to the system in and of itself.

It’s not helped when a tearful Hilda, pensive Petra and stony-faced Byleth gather around his bed before Manuela scolds them to give him space.

It’s _definitely_ not helped when Claude has to hear from them that Edelgard declared war on the Church of Seiros while he was asleep and they have barely a month to prepare before her troops invade Garreg Mach.

Silence covers the room as he tries to find the words to respond. Hilda is the first to grow impatient and changes the subject when all he manages is a shocked sputter.

“Hanahaki, Claude? Really?” Her voice is quiet and faraway, like it’s an effort just to say those few words, and she sniffs. “It must have been hidden for a long time for you to almost—“ she shakes her head, rubbing her reddened eyes.

“Since—“ he tries, but there’s a pressure in his chest that wasn’t there before and the words dry up in his throat.

“Don’t exert yourself. You’re in a very fragile state right now,” Manuela cuts in from across the room.

“Since before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion,” Petra finishes. She looks up at him, her eyes dark and stormy.

Hilda slaps a hand over her mouth as she gasps. “Since before— Claude, that was five months ago! How could you?!” A new wave of tears spring forth and she buries her head into his pillow. She tries to hug him, even though her arms can’t properly wrap around his shoulders while he’s lying in the infirmary bed, but he manages to return the gesture through his muscles screaming in protest.

“Don’t _ever_ do that again,” she mumbles into his ear.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to,” he means for it to sound joking but barely musters even a weak smile.

Hilda lifts her head and frowns sternly. “I mean it. We’re your friends and if you got your way, you would have _died_ without any of us even knowing how or why,” she sniffs again, her head drooping. “All of us were worried sick when you collapsed… Everyone else helped bring you here but Professor Manuela wouldn’t allow all of them in here at once.”

“Hilda is correct, but that is not mattering now,” Petra stares into his eyes, her expression grim. “War changes everything. It is time for you to do something.”

“I have to agree,” Manuela stands from her desk and looks him over, her eyes soft with pity and somber regret. “You didn’t have the luxury of time before, let alone now. I can’t force you to do anything, but please. Tell me, for your own sake, that you’ve come to a decision.”

Byleth looks at their companions, then back at Claude and gives him a firm nod. “You have to do this. We need you, Claude.”

He didn’t want to have to think about it so soon. Before he fell unconscious, he had felt relieved to accompany Byleth and discuss their options with Seteth and Rhea. Not because they had good news to report, but because it meant delaying making this choice.

But he feels a chill run through his bones as he nods solemnly. It’s not a game or a test anymore and there’s no time left for Claude to let slip through his fingers. In just a few weeks, they’ll be going to war, _real war_ , and fighting the entire Imperial army. He’s past skating on thin ice; now, the ice has broken beneath his weight and he’s being swallowed up by the freezing water below. The stakes are higher than ever before and he has to fight for the Golden Deer, for Garreg Mach, for the future, for his goals.

Even if it’s the hardest decision he’ll make in a long time. Even if it means losing his love. Even if it means never loving anyone ever again.

Petra’s right. She’s been right this entire time and he shouldn’t have ignored her, but she’s still here and she’s still right: war changes _everything_. Claude doesn’t know if he would have come to this decision had things turned out differently, and he doesn’t want to know the answer.

He swallows down a sting in his throat. The words sound empty and hollow when he forces them out.

“I have. When’s the soonest we can get this done?”

“In your condition, as soon as possible, which would be…” Manuela glances at a paper on her desk, “tomorrow.”

Claude wants to protest, wants to change his mind or ask her to shift around the schedule. It’s not enough time, it’s far from enough time, he needs to prepare first and see Lorenz one more time before he becomes just another person at the monastery, but he can’t. He knows he can’t.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “Then it'll all be over.”

* * *

Hilda and Byleth leave shortly after, and Manuela later goes off duty after making sure he won’t try to sneak out overnight. Through it all, Petra remains, even when Claude’s eyes begin to droop with exhaustion and the tightness in his throat prevents him from holding a conversation for too long.

“I’m scared, Petra,” he rasps. “I’ve never felt so weak. Tomorrow I’ll finally be able to breathe easy again, but—“ he breaks off when a dry cough rips from his throat and he winces, “I’m not ready.”

Petra looks down at the ground, her mouth pressed into a straight line. “I can see your fear and sadness, and I am sad as well to see you like this,” she looks up then, her eyes filled with a fiery determination. “But you must have courage. You are feeling fear now but you must keep fighting. For yourself, and all of us.”

He nods against the pillow and coughs again. Nothing’s come up since earlier that day, but it still aches down to his bones and leaves him breathless every time. Proof of how little time he has left, he thinks darkly. He’s not going to miss these feelings come the next day, but even now, in his darkest hour, something tells him it would feel that much worse if he was alone.

“You’re right… Thank you, Petra.”

The room is quiet and only illuminated by the light of a candle on Manuela’s work desk. Through the darkness, Claude barely sees Petra smile.

“As Hilda said, I am your friend. Even if you are not listening to me, I will still give you my help.”

If it was anyone else saying that, Claude would expect a smirk and an elbow playfully jabbing into his ribs, but Petra is so sincere that he can’t help but wheeze a self-deprecating laugh. Compared to when he first cracked his eyes open a few hours earlier, he’s surprised that he feels marginally better. He knows he’s never going to go back to his normal self, even once the procedure’s over and he wakes up with no memory of the part of himself he’s lost, but he at least feels good enough to urge her to go and get some dinner. She offers to come back and bring him something after but he refuses with a smile; it’s not like he has any appetite to speak of and he should at least _try_ to get some sleep, even if he knows his efforts will be fruitless.

The infirmary falls silent when she closes the door and the minuscule amount of relief he had felt slowly leaves him. He’s sure the moon must be high in the sky by the time gloom, dread, fear, and regret blend together like Garreg Mach’s worst dining hall special, making him feel sick to his stomach. He’d been given a bucket in case he needs to cough something up in the middle of the night, and he feels seconds away from making use of it when a gentle knock sounds at the door.

Claude runs a hand down in his face in annoyance; he thought he’d told Petra that he’ll be fine without her. He doesn’t want to get up to answer and contemplates asking kindly to _please_ leave him alone or pretending to be asleep, but the door opens before he can give it any more thought. The lights of the hallway shine against a tall figure carrying a tray, and the urge to tell them to go away multiplies tenfold.

Lorenz invites himself inside and sits primly in the chair that Petra left out, setting his tray on the table. The candle’s gone out by now, but judging by the clinking sounds, and the fact that it’s Lorenz, Claude suspects that it’s carrying teacups.

“Good evening,” is all Lorenz says, his tone just as purposeful as always and giving nothing away.

“Hi,” Claude replies, unsure. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

“I simply wished to check in on you after you nearly scared the daylights out of us with that display earlier,” Lorenz’s poise crumbles in the blink of an eye, like he’s offended his motive wasn’t obvious.

“Oh. Well. Make yourself at home, I guess,” Claude frowns and reaches up to rub the back of his neck, more to give his hands something to do than for any other reason. Despite what he thought earlier about seeing him one last time, it’s become apparent that Lorenz is undeniably the _worst_ person he could be alone with right now and Claude’s sure that his discomfort is written all over his face. It’s a good thing they can barely see each other.

“Thank you. And, please, take this. It’s freshly made and was specifically chosen to help soothe the pain you must be feeling,” Lorenz holds out a teacup, which Claude takes with a murmured thanks. It smells good and tastes better, and he feels himself start to relax ever so slightly.

“Normally I’d offer you rose petals,” Lorenz continues, reaching for his own cup, “since that is my preferred blend and the one I own the most leaves of, but…” he pauses, suddenly embarrassed. “Given the circumstances, I deemed it inappropriate.”

“Good call.”

Claude can’t hide his bitterness. After five months and more close calls than he’d care to admit, his efforts to keep the Golden Deer, and Lorenz especially, from finding out about his ailment were all for nothing. It would be nothing short of a slap in the face for Lorenz to put two and two together now, when it’s so close to being over and done with for good, but Claude can’t find it within him to care anymore.

The room quiets and Claude busies himself with his tea. He almost thinks this silence is an improvement to the one from earlier, but it’s broken when Lorenz heaves a deep sigh, like _he’s_ the one who’s suffering here. Claude bristles at the thought before Lorenz even opens his mouth.

“Claude, how could you have been so foolish?”

If it wasn’t for the teacup he’s holding, Claude would have buried his face in his hands.

“I already got three separate earfuls from Petra, Hilda _and_ Manuela. I’m not in the mood for another, least of all one from you, Lorenz.”

If it sounds biting, it’s because he wants it to, though the effect might have been ruined when his voice cracks and jumps down to a weak, croaky whisper halfway through.

Lorenz says nothing, and Claude imagines his face contorting into outrage and indignation, but all that happens is a beat of silence before a flame erupts. Claude’s eyes are pulled up and he gapes in shock. Lorenz is glaring at him, but all Claude notices is the strange colour his hair and eyes have taken on before the Fire cast in his palm.

“I’m well aware of how exhausted you must be,” Lorenz begins. He starts out as composed as usual but as he continues, his voice slowly rises in volume and emotion until he’s as heated as the flame lighting him up. “But you must understand why I perceived such reckless idiocy to be beyond even you. Just once, did you stop and think about how we almost lost you because you continued to let the Hanahaki persist? For Goddess’s sake, Claude, your stubbornness nearly cost you your life!”

“I thought you wanted to lead the Golden Deer. To lead the Alliance,” Claude mutters under his breath. The words hurt in more ways than one and he tears his eyes off of Lorenz to bury a cough with another sip of tea.

Claude thinks he hears a soft gasp before Lorenz goes quiet again and the flame flickers out. The silence drags on, heavy and uncomfortable, and just when Claude thinks Lorenz is about to stand up and storm out without bothering to answer, he sighs again. It’s quieter and weaker this time, and he sounds as tired as Claude feels.

“Please, forgive me. I should not be raising my voice at such a late hour, especially when you are in such poor condition.”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t,” Claude deadpans.

Despite everything, Lorenz huffs a short laugh. It reminds Claude of their encounter at the ball and the disaster that ensued. He doesn’t want to be reminded of that at a time like this but the thought intrudes before he can help it, and it’s followed by the realisation that this will be the last time Lorenz’s laugh will bring back memories, whether good or bad. His heart rends, aching more deeply than his poor, overworked throat.

This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t how their last conversation before everything changes forever was supposed to go.

Claude lifts a hand to rub his tired eyes and wishes, not for the first time in the past few minutes, that he was alone.

“If that was all you wanted to say, then maybe we should cut this short. It’s getting late and we both need our beauty sleep,” he gives a twisted smile that Lorenz can’t see. “Me especially. Got a big day of having flowers pulled out of me tomorrow.”

“Ah. Yes, I understand. I apologise if I brought you further agitation,” Lorenz gathers up his teacups, both empty, and stands from his chair.

“It… wasn’t the worst thing to happen today,” is the nicest thing Claude can manage without lying.

Lorenz hums, and Claude can tell through the darkness that he’s hesitating.

“I assume you will be absent from class tomorrow?” He finally says in a way that Claude initially has trouble placing his tone. It’s quiet and heavy with finality, a far cry from his usual overbearing confidence.

“Yeah. Manuela should give me the clear in the evening.”

“Hm. I wish you a speedy recovery,” Lorenz’s voice drops lower still until Claude has to strain his ears to hear it. He lingers by the door and looks back over his shoulder, one hand on the doorknob. “The next battle is the most important one yet and it would be terribly disheartening without you there to bolster our spirits. Rest well, and ensure that you are full of life again the next time we meet.”

He leaves, and Claude does anything but rest well.

* * *

It feels like only a few minutes have passed when Manuela enters the next morning.

“Are you ready?” She says to him after prepping the operation table.

Claude takes in a breath so he can sigh, hoping that will be an answer itself. His lungs fill with air and he stills, eyes flying wide open. He sits up in a quick flurry of movement that rumples his quilt and gasps when his limbs don’t stretch and strain with the exertion.

“No,” he says.

“Claude, please,” Manuela deflates, pleading with him like a new mother who can’t get her child to go to bed. “I know how you must feel, believe me, I’ve seen many Hanahaki victims before, but—“

“No, listen to me,” he sounds like himself again. He’s tired from yet another sleepless night, but he feels more like himself than he has in months. A wide grin splits his face and he leaps up, crossing the room in two quick strides and meeting Manuela’s bewildered gaze head-on. “I can breathe.”

She gasps, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Good heavens! You mean… you cured yourself overnight? The only way that’s possible is if your feelings have become requited.”

Claude stops mid-step from where he’s pacing around the room for no reason other than to move his limbs without needing to stop and catch his breath in between. It’s a feeling he’s sorely missed, almost as much as being able to take deep, steady breaths without the air being choked out of him.

He chokes anyway when the full weight of that statement dawns on him.

“I gotta go,” is all he says and then he’s tearing the door open and racing through the hall down to the first floor. It’s been so long since he’s felt so full of energy and he nearly trips over his feet amidst his excitement and the feeling of running at top speed that's become so foreign recently. A disbelieving laugh bubbles up from his chest that grows louder and louder as he passes through the reception hall, the entrance hall, and finally, the second floor of the dorms.

He comes to a stop one door away from his own and raises a hand to knock. Lorenz appears after a brief delay, looking suitably annoyed for being woken up so early before his grumpy look shifts to one of surprise.

Something occurs to Claude and his grin grows impossibly wider.

The words didn’t come true in the same way he expected, but he is indeed full of life for this meeting and every meeting to come.

**Author's Note:**

> this was my first time writing from Claude's pov so feel free to let me know what you thought! we stan comments in this chili's tonight x


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